


i can't help but want oceans to part

by fshep



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexuality, Character Study, Crushes, Experimentation, F/F, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6287116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fshep/pseuds/fshep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Hero of Orlais and the Champion of Kirwall… Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can't help but want oceans to part

**Author's Note:**

> I originally tried to get this done for Femslash February, but that didn't happen. Not that it matters. Femslash _forever_ is more of my style. Fun fact: this also began as Female Inquisitor/Cassandra, but the chemistry with Hawke was too strong to ignore.
> 
> This piece is a dedication to the reminder that you're never too old or too young to explore your sexuality--and that your orientation is valid whether or not you've had physical experience. 
> 
> Title borrowed from "War of Hearts" by Ruelle.

“What _is_ it about the Champion?” Cassandra mutters to herself in a harsh grumble.

“That’s a little vague, don’t you think?” And, _Maker_ , she hadn’t realized the dwarf had slowed to her pace. Spotting the quick jolt of Cassandra’s tensed shoulders, Varric quirks his lips. “Ahh, am I intruding on a personal crisis?”

“What makes you say that?” she demands.

“You’re talking to yourself, for one. I realize that Crestwood’s lacking aspects in eye candy, but whispering frantically about Hawke at the tail end of the party is a little…”

He trails off, and she narrows her eyes. “Go on, then.”

“ _Concerning_ ,” he supplies graciously.

She briefly closes her eyes. “Ah. Of course. You’re _concerned_ about me.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“When I know that you are only prying into this because of your misplaced curiosity? Yes.”

“I don’t think it’s misplaced at all! After all, what could Hawke have done to cause such distress? She’s far from tactful, but I figured that’d be something you two could bond over.”

Her hand twitches at her side, longing to pull her sword from its sheathe. Their surroundings are desolate as far as the eye can see; it would appear that Varric simply inspires her to take arms. Resisting the urge to hit something, she says, “I refuse to discuss this with you.”

“Wait, wait. Let me get this straight. _You_ , Cassandra Pentaghast, ace interrogator and stabber of books, refuse to discuss _Hawke_? With _me_?  What kind of ass-end parallel universe did I wind up in?”

He is truly dedicated to trying her patience today.

Up ahead, Trevelyan readies her staff. A rift bursts to life at their twelve.

When Cassandra doesn’t spare another word for Varric’s chiding, merely bracing her torso with her shield and sword, he breathes a sigh of longing. “Nope. Still traversing the one that’s torn to shit. Knew it was too good to be true. Don’t think that this is over, Seeker.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replies flatly.

 

* * *

 

Dream? No. But she _hopes_.

She is resilient. The last thing she worries about is cracking under pressure. She’d gone through more than enough training to withstand even the most brutal interrogations. That is not her concern.

However—Varric, while grating, has quite the aptitude for encouraging others to willingly open up to him.

It helps that she can spot it from a mile away.

“So,” he begins, dealing cards between them. They meet weekly, if their schedules allow, to refine Cassandra’s skill at Wicked Grace. That’d been the initial pretense, anyway. Unspoken, it has become a time in which they can speak as friends. Strange and unlikely as it is, Cassandra does not resist.

Often, anyway.

“No.”

He pauses, amused. “I haven’t even said anything.”

“Yet. I’d prefer if you didn’t at all.”

“Ouch. Retract those quills, Seeker. I’m harmless.”

She reaches for her cards and stares pointedly at their faces. She means to make a non-verbal statement—that she’s here for the game and not Varric’s subtle attempts at playing therapist. Unfortunately the effect is ruined by the way her lips twist into a scowl.

“Bad hand?” drawls Varric.

Right. She’s supposed to conceal her reactions. Although she’s a bit more familiar with the game’s suits and their meanings, it’s much harder to lie and cheat the way that is demanded.

“Maybe. Or I could just be tricking you.”

“Ha! I’d _almost_ believe that, if you weren’t so easy to read.”

Across the table, his eyes flicker up to meet hers. He’s not talking about Wicked Grace, she knows, and she stifles the urge to groan. Varric is eager to listen and it seems he won’t let Cassandra forget that. It’s the kind of persistence that’s vague enough for him to deny. She cannot _stand_ it.

He draws a card from the deck. “You know, Hawke’s been meaning to speak with you directly.”

“She has?” perks Cassandra, before catching the excited hitch in her tone and dialing it back a few notches. “I suppose it’s understandable that she would have something to say about my efforts to track her down.”

“Mm—nope. Not exactly. If I recall, it was more along the lines of ‘Lady Pentaghast could read the entire Thedosian codex aloud to me and I’d be interested’ and less _business casual_.”

Cassandra attempts to blink back her surprise. “I…”

“Hold on: there’s more. Something about your cheekbones? Or maybe it was your jaw. I know the scars were mentioned once or twice.”

Feeling strangely self-conscious, she places her cards facedown onto the table and frowns. “I don’t know what you hope to gain by telling me this.”

“Does it really look like I’ve got any gold on the table, Seeker? I am but an innocent bystander, swept up in the wake of these sordid affairs.”

“If any affairs are occurring, I’m afraid I am not aware of them.” She leans back in her chair, leveling her gaze. “Speak plainly, Varric: what exactly are you getting at?”

“I think you know.”

“I _think_ you have a habit of reading too deeply into passing comments.”

He lifts his chin and grins. “Ah, but passing comments are beacons of information. Not to mention a great opportunity for foreshadowing.”

Tiredly, she lifts her palm to the side of her face. Would it be wise to speak so candidly about matters that aren’t relevant to the Inquisition and its efforts? In fact, her troubles are minor enough to easily be swept under the rug—foolish for having even wormed their way into her thoughts in the first place.

“Need I remind you that I’m no ambassador? Or commander, or spymaster… Whatever it is you’re stressing out about, it can’t hurt to talk about it. To me, anyway. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

She has to wonder if he harbors an ulterior motive but quickly dismisses the thought. One would think she’d be better at Wicked Grace with the sheer force of which she overanalyzes.

“It’s… foolish,” she begins—as a precursor. Her shoulders stoop reluctantly. When Varric doesn’t interrupt her, she feels off-kilter. “I simply find myself drawn to the Champion. Unbelievably so. At first, I thought to attribute it to your tales, but I’ve found she is even more radiant in person. She looks as haggard and exhausted as the rest of us, aged with stress and battle wounds, yet…”

Varric looks surprisingly understanding. “She has that effect on people.”

To accept that statement as an explanation for Cassandra’s thoughts as of late would be all too easy. Still, it doesn’t seem _accurate_. She purses her lips and Varric tilts his head inquiringly.

“I don’t disagree. Her charisma is undeniable.”

He raises his brows. “I’m sensing a _but_.”

She shakes her head. “If I knew, I would tell you.” And she means that honestly.

This puzzles Varric, although within a few rounds of drawing and discarding their hands, accompanied by their usual jibes and banter, he looks at her as though he’s figured everything out.

“Talk to Hawke,” he says.

“That was the plan,” she retorts.

 

* * *

 

For once, as opposed to _all_ of the newborn Inquisition’s endeavors thus far, things _do_ go according to plan. She arranges a meeting with Hawke, who treats it like a gathering between old friends. That suits Cassandra well enough, although she’s thrown by the mage’s casual approach to nearly every situation.

It’s just another addition to the growing list of things Cassandra finds pleasant about Hawke. It isn’t _envy_ she feels when faced with such an enigma—for she’d rather be careful and thorough over _dead_ —but admiration.

But the knots in her stomach and acceleration of her heart upon watching Hawke enter the smithy—that’s caused by something beyond admiration.

“Good evening, Seeker,” Hawke greets with a smile.

Cassandra can’t help her slight grimace. “Please—Cassandra will do.”

“Then Cassandra it is.” Easy-going as ever, she pads her way over to Cassandra’s desk, where the elder woman sits. She feels like she should stand, or do something ridiculous like shake Hawke’s hand, but the Champion’s already sliding onto the edge of the wood and perching herself on top.

Cassandra has tried to prepare a line of conversation that would naturally divert into the root of her concerns to no avail. She attempts to claw her way past the awkward beat in which they stare at each other expectantly.

“Let me,” says Hawke, looking a little fond. “But you’ll have to promise not to kill Varric.”

“I don’t like to make promises I’m not certain I’ll be able to keep,” she replies blandly.

“I figured you’d say something like that. But I assure you, he’s only looking out for you. He has a very big heart, you know. One of the biggest I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

How fitting, for Hawke to defend Varric as much as he defends her. Their friendship is touching.

Cassandra sighs, but she doesn’t argue. “What did he say?”

She leans back against her palms. “He believes you’re undergoing a sexuality crisis.”

Sputtering, Cassandra stands up. “That’s—”

“Completely normal, if it’s the truth,” Hawke interrupts. Her eyes crease with faint amusement. “And nothing to be ashamed of, either. He only directed you to me because he’s straight—and therefore clueless on these matters.”

She’s a little affronted, but mostly awestruck, and grateful to have tackled the point of this conversation instead of beating around the bush. Even _if_ she feels sick with embarrassment.

“I’m too old for this,” she mutters.

Hawke sits up a bit, tilting her head and giving Cassandra’s face a long, assessing look. She hums approvingly, which is cause for a faint flush. “Tell me, then: at which age _must_ we be completely confident in our identities?”

Cassandra doesn’t have an answer for that.

“And I’d like to think we’ve both got plenty of life left to live.”

“One can only hope.” Cassandra looks down at her hands. “I… just don’t know where to go from here. How can I be sure?”

“Well, what was it that made you start to question yourself?”

Andraste preserve her. Has it come to this? Her face twists with reluctance and she decides she’s past the point of preserving any dignity. “It was you.”

Hawke looks _ecstatic_ , teeth bared into a grin and eyes shining with enthusiasm. “ _Me?_ That’s quite the compliment, Cassandra. I suppose Varric’s tale would’ve given you plenty of material to imagine a dashing, gorgeous maiden sweeping you off your feet.”

Cassandra frowns in confusion. “I don’t need imagination. It was you, as you are, here and now.”

That catches the Champion off guard. Her smile fades and her cheeks fill with a bit of color. “R-Really, now? As beaten and worn as I’ve gotten?”

“Yes. You are still as beautiful as they say, and today you are the sum of your deeds and experiences. You bear the weight of many, and fight for even more. That… is what I find most alluring.”

Hawke stares at her with gently parted lips. “Oh,” she says eloquently. Pausing, she takes a moment to think. “Can I kiss you?”

Cassandra blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I’d really like to, and you’re not yet sold on women. I’d say that’s a good enough reason.”

“Of course you would,” she retorts in exasperation. Still, she can’t deny the eager pull of her heart that accompanies Hawke’s suggestion. The Champion begins to gently kick her feet while she waits for Cassandra to make up her mind. “What of Isabela?”

The corner of Hawke’s mouth quirks. “We had our fun in Kirkwall. I _really_ should tell Varric to update my relationship status.”

 “I… see.” Truth be told, this does provide her with a sense of ease. If they are to do _anything_ —and Andraste guide her, she never thought that’d be in any realm of possibility—to know she’s not disrupting Hawke’s personal life with her own crisis is a relief.

Hawke continues to swing her legs from Cassandra’s desk, waiting patiently for her to make the first move. It’s her turn to draw a card, it would seem.

Like this, she’s taller than Hawke by a scant few inches. The observation causes her to blush, although she couldn’t for the life of her explain why. Hesitantly, she steps closer.

“Wait,” says Hawke. She slides off her gloves and sets them aside, over some of Cassandra’s paperwork. Bare hands lift to touch Cassandra’s face, gently. Her fingers brush the curve of her jaw and Cassandra opens her mouth as if to speak. She cannot find the words, if there are any. Hawke’s hands are unbelievably soft. The gloves must help, she’d imagine; however, even Cassandra wears thick gloves to prevent calluses, yet wielding a sword makes it nigh impossible to avoid rough skin.

Cassandra’s tongue darts past her lips, conscious of how they might feel against Hawke’s. Hawke tracks the movement with eyes full of mirth.

Finally, Cassandra leans in. She rests a palm on Hawke’s thigh—for stability, of course—and continues onward with Hawke’s encouragement. She has faced far worse adversaries in the past. Something as simple as a kiss shouldn’t frighten her so.

They meet, then linger. Hawke doesn’t allow Cassandra to pull away so soon; she tilts her head and peppers slow kisses against Cassandra’s lips. She brushes her thumbs lightly along Cassandra’s cheeks as if to soothe her, and it works. Slowly, the tension leaves her body and she sighs.

It’s nice, and not unlike kissing a man—fundamentally. But it is very, very different.

The word that comes to mind is _soft_. Hawke’s hands and lips, most definitely, but also the thigh beneath Cassandra’s hand and the body that presses close when Cassandra draws nearer. It’s warmth and a pleasant scent and the undeniable realization that she could spend hours like this, wrapped up in Hawke’s embrace.

She feels Hawke’s smile against her mouth, and that’s nice, too.

Still, she pulls away just enough to demand, “What?”

Hawke’s eyes crease. “Mm, nothing, really. You’re a good kisser, Cassandra.” She steals another, as if unable to help herself. Their noses brush.

Cassandra feels her cheeks warm at the praise. Ridiculous. It’s _ridiculous_. She should not be blushing over a mere compliment.

“Thank you.”

“Maker, you’re adorable, too,” Hawke sighs, absently lowering one of her hands to cup the side of Cassandra’s neck.

 _This_ observation causes Cassandra to scoff, leaning back. “Adorable? I haven’t heard _that_ one in decades.”

“Then allow me to make up for lost time. I could write a sonnet, if you’d like. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be very good, though.”

It’s then that Cassandra truly believes she could fall in love with Hawke. Cassandra could lead her away from the dark pit that is Kirkwall, onto bigger and better adventures; Hawke could light candles with a flick of her wrist and serenade Cassandra despite being dreadfully tone deaf; there would be no breach in the sky, no darkspawn to kill.

The thought passes.

“I am sure the attempt would be… endearing, nonetheless.”

Hawke laughs, loose and bright. It’s a lovely sound. “Don’t go easy on me! I expect feedback, you know. How else am I supposed to improve?”

“I will write to you. You can practice as much as you’d like. Although I’ve never found a way to bring life to the written word, I’m sure you would fare better.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” She wraps her legs around Cassandra and pulls her in, arms draped over her shoulders. She leans close, but her mouth finds Cassandra’s ear instead. She drops to a whisper. “Word has it you’re a bit of a romantic. I bet you’re a sucker for wining and dining. Flowers, long walks…”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not at all. I even happen to know somebody who shares in your enthusiasm.” She pauses for clear dramatic effect. “Our dear Inquisitor.”

Ah. Cassandra falls silent, feeling chagrined. “I’m afraid that ship has already sailed.”

Hawke relinquishes her grip on Cassandra, leaning back to look at her face. “Oh? Do tell.”

“She… _flirted_ with me, quite often. For as long as we’d been acquainted. If she’d behaved like such with other members of the Inquisition, I wouldn’t have bothered to address it at all. But it became quite clear that she had—intent.”

“And in your unfortunate stint of convinced heterosexuality, you denied her?”

Cassandra frowns, affronted even when faced directly with the truth. “She is also our leader. It would be inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Hawke smiles. “More or less than snogging the Champion of Kirkwall under the cover of nightfall?”

“Your glibness does you no favors.”

“I’m not looking for favors. Nor am I trying to play matchmaker, really. I’d much rather have you for myself.” She reaches for Cassandra’s face and brushes a short lock of hair behind her ear. “But take it from someone who’s familiar with combating a slew of life-threatening situations: there’s nothing wrong with letting yourself love. I’ll tell you that it’s a lot more comforting to walk into hell with somebody at your side.”

“I cannot afford the distraction—”

“There’s a difference between distraction from duty and distraction from a downward spiral of insanity.”

Hawke is very convincing when she wants to be. Cassandra was already aware, but to see it in action is rather daunting. It’s as though all of her carefully instructed excuses are coming apart at the seams.

“Besides—you’re _stunning_.” She smirks. “That’s not so much me trying to convince you as it is a cold, hard fact.”

She shakes her head in exasperation. “You’ll make me blush.”

“I’m trying.”

Cassandra can’t help but smile. She takes one of Hawke’s hands in the both of hers, bowing her head just slightly. “Thank you. For everything, I mean. You did not have to indulge me in such a late endeavor.”

“Better late than never, as they say. I’m happy to help. Really. This was a rare quest that didn’t involve bloodshed or politics.” She hops off of the desk, standing face-to-face with the seeker. She’s rough around the edges, but as Cassandra had mentioned earlier, that’s simply part of her appeal, as much as the lilt of her voice and the crow’s feet at her eyes. “I rather enjoyed myself.”

“As did I.” She finds peace in the fact that she says this with confidence. Now, there is no doubt. “Shall I walk you back to your quarters?”

“How chivalrous of you. Unneeded, however. I’m meeting Varric at the tavern.”

She narrows her eyes in suspicion, uneasy at the thought of becoming the night’s gossip. “I see.”

Hawke lifts Cassandra’s hand to her lips and grins. “No worries, love. I don’t kiss and tell.”

Against her better judgment, Cassandra finds herself trusting the notion. If it means that Varric will be unbearable in his quest for details in the upcoming future, so be it.

Hawke slips off of the desk, making her way toward the stairs. She pauses, turning to give Cassandra a warm look. “The Hero of Orlais and the Champion of Kirwall… Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

She departs with an encouraging wink, leaving Cassandra to contemplate the evening.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s as if Cassandra is looking at the world through a new pair of eyes.

Scout Harding greets her on the way to her post, and she finds herself entranced by the bright dusting of freckles that splay over her visage. In the afternoon, she’s summoned to speak with Leliana on rumors about candidates for the new divine; Cassandra notices the spymaster’s sleek build, the way she carries herself soundlessly like a prowling wildcat. Josephine merely passes by and the urge to hold her close is nearly overwhelming now that she knows what such a soft body can feel like.

 _Maker_. She’d truly been blind to this—or ignorant, at the very least. Still, her thoughts linger on one woman in particular.

Hawke has taken her leave; Cassandra will remain at the Inquisitor’s side for as long as duty dictates. Though they walk different paths, Cassandra finds herself believing that they’ll meet again—hopefully, out of novelty instead of catastrophe—because she _wants_ to.

It’s been a long time since she’s let herself want.

She slides into the chair in front of her desk, eyes flickering over the edge on which Hawke sat, and pulls out a sheet of parchment.

 _Dear Hawke,_ she writes.


End file.
